Deny, deny, deny.
—A Guide for the Married Man (1967 film)
“OF COURSE EDDIE Franzetti didn’t believe your theory, Pen. I don’t believe it either, and I’m the guy who got clobbered.” Slouched in the passenger seat, Seymour folded his arms and stared at the road ahead.
“You’re also the guy who was with me when we found Old Walt’s corpse,” I reminded him.
“Walt’s death was an accident.”
“I got a better look at the scene than you did.” I argued.
“Sheriff Taft declared it an accident. Who are we to dispute the verdict of the she-wolf of Blackstone Falls?”
“I talked with Sheriff Taft last night. I get the feeling she’s rethinking her ‘verdict.’”
Before we left his house, Seymour grabbed a knit cap to hide his gauze turban. Now he was intermittently scratching and yelping when he accidentally prodded the wound.
“You should take that hat off,” I told him. “It’s too warm to wear it.”
“No way, Pen. Until the bandages come off, I’m going full Mike Nesmith.”
Seymour pulled his hand away from his head and held it in his lap.
“At least you didn’t tell Eddie the portrait was cursed. That’s just crazy talk,” he said.
“You’re right about Eddie not believing in curses, but I’m not so sure it’s crazy talk—”
“I might have believed your theory that a thief was looking for Harriet’s portrait if Eddie hadn’t told me about the junkies from the Wentworth knocking off homes on Larchmont.”
“Seymour, face reality. Someone wanted that painting bad enough to assault you and leave you for dead.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But either way, from now on, I’ll take precautions.”
“Precautions may not be enough, not against—”
“A curse?” He shook his head. “Pen, someone trying to steal the portrait doesn’t make it cursed.”
“No, but it does make owning it dangerous.”
He folded his arms to keep from scratching his head. “Well, Harriet’s mine, and I intend to keep her.”
“How about a compromise? Leave Harriet at my bookstore for a few more days—”
“But I want her with me!”
“Just temporarily, Seymour. We have a security alarm with cameras, something your house lacks.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “But only until I upgrade. Clearly, Waldo is an inadequate warning system. But once I get my place squared away, my Harriet is coming home with me.”
I didn’t want to argue, but I was still worried about Seymour. Even with modern security installed, he’d still be all alone in that giant house. What more could I do to protect him?
Wait for the genius to figure out he’s in a jam, Jack replied. A few more dents in his bowling ball should do the trick—
I’ll do no such thing, I told the ghost. But I’ll tell you what we are going to do. We’re going to protect my friend by finding out who killed Walt.
Just then Seymour yelped and pulled his hand away from his sore head.
“That’s it,” I said as I made a sharp turn.
“Hey, this isn’t the road to the garage.”
“We’re not going to the garage. I’m taking you to the ER to have that hard head of yours examined.”
TWO HOURS LATER, we were on our way back to my bookstore. Seymour had submitted to an evaluation at the hospital and came away with a cleanish bill of health and a prescription for painkillers.
I asked Seymour if he wanted me to stop at a pharmacy, but he shook his head.
“I’m a postal worker, Pen. Pain is my middle name.”
He demanded I go right to the bookstore. He wanted to see his “girl” on display before he headed to the garage for his VW. I gently reminded Seymour that his girl was really an it, but my words fell on deaf ears.
When we arrived at Buy the Book, I noticed a strange vehicle parked in front, a pristine white van emblazoned with a cc communications logo in bold scarlet letters.
Inside the shop, we found Bonnie alone at the register.
“Professor Parker called,” she told me. “He’s coming over with a guest. Some visiting professor wants to see Harriet’s portrait.”
Seymour grinned. “Finally! Harriet is going to get the critical attention she deserves.”
I scanned the busy aisles and noted that most of the customers were either entering or leaving the art exhibit. “I think that portrait is getting plenty of attention already. And where’s Sadie, by the way?” I asked Bonnie.
“She’s showing the art exhibit to our client.”
“Client? What client?”
“Sadie said you know all about it.”
“I do?”
As Bonnie shrugged and turned her attention back to the customers in line, Seymour charged toward the event space. I caught up with him at the door, and we entered together.
Sadie and a tall man in a tweedy suit had their backs to us as they gazed at the McClure portrait. Suddenly the stranger extended his long arms and spoke in a voice so deep it reverberated like a bass guitar and so loud it boomed off the walls of the hollow space.
“That’s it! That’s the art I’ve been searching for!”
The next words the stranger spoke sent a chill through me.
“Why, I would kill to own that painting!”